Chapter 9
Elsedora
Agrid of abundant garden beds graced the cottage’s yard, surrounded by a charming half wall Leo had built stone by stone to keep out the rabbits.
Berry bushes afforded them privacy from the path leading up to the palace, and a rope swing hung from a large oak out front, the wood nearly rotted through.
Emmerick’s mother greeted me at the door before I could knock.
With a hug, she squished some of the white roses between us. “My favorites,” she said. “The flowers and the company. I know precisely who sent these along. Thank you, dear.”
“He wouldn’t dream of missing it.”
Angeline’s eyes crinkled. Leo offered a bow of greeting from where he stood by the hearth. “Lady Lamoreaux, lovely as always to see you.”
“It’s Elsedora,” I reminded him. “Or El, or Elsie, or Else… You’ve plenty of options.”
Leo smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. He and Emmerick shared no blood, yet there were some mannerisms so uncannily similar between them. Silver threaded his beard, and his skin pinched with smile lines.
The Faulkers’ home luckily had remained unscathed during Firose’s uprising.
I’d become a frequent visitor. They’d both finally retired from their duties this year, and Sybilla had insisted they stay in the cottage.
Angeline still spent some days baking for the palace; we couldn’t keep her out of the kitchens for long.
“I’m headed out to the garden,” Leo said, and Angeline playfully shooed him away.
“Wait—first.” I handed him a blue-painted wooden box containing twelve decadent truffles.
He grinned and took the gift. “Oh, these will not last a day. Thank you, Lady Elsedora.”
“Of course. Emmerick would bring them himself if he could,” I answered. “Don’t let me keep you lovebirds. I should head back north.”
“Nonsense,” Angeline argued. “Come in for a cup of tea—it’s the least I could do. Though, I’d prefer you stay for dinner.”
I smiled; there was no refusing the woman if she wanted to feed you.
How could I complain?
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” I said.
Leo pecked Angeline on the cheek before he exited the cottage to toil in the garden. Angeline ushered me further inside.
Once we were in the kitchen, she set down a plate of shortbread cookies on the table and started a pot of tea on the already-roaring hearth. There was a loaf baking, and it filled the room with a nutty, sweet aroma.
“How is my boy?” Angeline asked.
“In good spirits, all things considered. He was too worried about my well-being and your anniversary to share much.” I retrieved a vase from the top shelf of a well-loved oak hutch.
“There’s a bucket of water by the broom closet,” Angeline said, though quite familiar with the cottage by now, I was already halfway there.
“Thoughtful, that boy. He has been buying me those roses since he started earning his own coin. Actually, let me cut those.”
Angeline grabbed the flowers from me, and I laughed at her inability to let anyone do a single thing for her. She cut the stems and plopped the flowers down into the water I’d collected in the vase. “There we are. Beautiful.”
In the Lamoreaux Estate’s former glory, my mother had always kept a small loyal staff rather than adding to it for parties.
She enjoyed flitting around the room to refresh drinks and hear about everyone’s lives.
Propriety be damned in her household. Yet she’d been so loved for it.
I imagined she would have gotten along well with Angeline.
“I’m glad you like them,” I said, with a weak smile. I’d let myself linger on the memory for too long.
“I am glad he has you, someone to talk to aside from us. I’m glad we have you,” Angeline carried on as she gently patted my hand.
“You flatter me. I am not usually perceived well by mothers,” I chuckled out.
“And how are you usually perceived?”
“As a mother’s worse nightmare. Ruiner of honor, sparker of evil thoughts, and bringer of bad influence,” I only half-heartedly joked. I had, in fact, heard all those things in my younger years of immortality.
Wanting to be good and having the capacity for it were two different animals. But now I worried—what example would I set for Lark?
Angeline hummed for a moment as she placed the vase on the scratched wooden table, which matched the style of the hutch. She groaned as she lowered into her chair; I frowned in response.
“I imagine a great deal of mothers miscalculated you, my girl. Plus, any man lucky enough to win your heart would be a fool to let their mother’s tongue wag about you.”
She said that now, but I wasn’t pursuing her child. Most found me likable up until that point. I sat across from her, and she poured the tea into two clay mugs. She fixed mine with cream and no sugar as I preferred.
Shaking my head, I said, “I’m certain my heart is past being won, Angie. But thank you.”
I’d once dreamed of being swept into a love like my parents’.
As a girl, I often caught Mama and Papa dancing in the parlor to a song only they could hear. They used to embrace at every opportunity. It seemed so simple.
“I have serious doubts about that,” Angeline said, her tone sly and her expression too smug.
A memory of a silver-haired ghost surfaced. He leveled me with a devastating, cocky grin and said, Miss me, huh? I did.
Now, he existed as a phantom of my imagination. Men’s smiles had won me before, and look where it had gotten me.
“I was quite the wild one in my day too, before Leo. Many a tryst in the hay on my father’s farm,” she said as though knowing I needed the laugh.
I let my jaw drop in mock shock. “Angeline! Whatever would your dear husband say?”
Leo would love her regardless; his son carried that same heartfelt devotion for the people he cared for.
My heart lurched into my throat. The inability to keep away from him, the coy teasing, the sultry comments… it’s how it all had once started before.
Angie laughed and said, “I assure you Leo pretends that I’ve learned every trick from him.”
I snorted. Conversations with the older mortal were always a delight. She was fiery, yet demure when need be, and oh-so witty.
I glanced past her at the series of paintings of the Central Corridor countryside that hung on the stone wall behind the table. Rich greens and golds captured the landscape impeccably.
“Have you painted anything new recently?” I asked her, eager to switch the topic of conversation.
Angeline placed a shortbread cookie on a linen napkin and pushed it toward me. “Not for some months. My hands don’t always cooperate long enough to find it enjoyable.”
This part of immortality made the hair on my arms stand. Watching my mortal friends grow older, frailer, and knowing that they would leave me too soon.
“I’ll speak to Wyeth about what tonics might help.”
Angeline scoffed. “Oh, quit your fretting. Don’t worry about me. Helping Leo in the garden keeps me busy. I’m quite happy with spending time with him there. I’ll pick up my brushes again soon. Your orchards in Lamoreaux would make an amazing landscape when snow-covered.”
“I’d love an Angeline Faulker original above my fireplace,” I agreed. “But you’ll let me commission it.”
She waved her hand. “Your coin is no good here. What use do I have for it? I’ve all I need.”
I would not win this debate. I’d someday pay her back in her son’s freedom from his curse. The relics were one thing to find. Waking him was another challenge. Both tasks were top of mind whenever I searched an ancient ruin.
Taking my first bite of shortbread, I let out a satisfied hum as it melted on my tongue. The jam at the center was tangy and sweet. “Sources, Angeline. I know you have no Source magic, but there is no way that this isn’t sorcery.”
She laughed. “Have you never made shortbread cookies? The ones with jam are Em’s favorite. I made them for him every birthday.”
“I am not allowed near a kitchen,” I admitted.
“In my early years in the Sahlms, I learned to roast whatever ghastly game we could catch over an open flame. By the time we built the city, I was so used to eating vermin that good food tasted odd for about fifty years. Then Umber House was constructed and the kitchens were charmed to cook for us.”
The years following the exile of all Source-wielders from Henosis had been difficult to survive.
“You come by here anytime, and I’ll teach you. I know it isn’t a necessity, but there’s a satisfaction in making something by hand. No charm or magic can bake with love.”
I took another bite and nodded, pointing to the shortbread cookies. “Once I settle down, this is the first thing I’d like you to teach me.”
Angeline relaxed back in her chair and smiled, seeming happy to grant me the time to fulfill duties she knew were more pressing than my lack of cooking skills.